


Enough

by TheSigyn



Category: Beauty and the Beast (TV 1987)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-05-16
Updated: 2011-05-16
Packaged: 2018-03-30 20:33:36
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,179
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3950788
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheSigyn/pseuds/TheSigyn
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“Hold me tighter!” Catherine cried. “Tighter!” Follow up scene at the end of The Watcher.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Enough

**Author's Note:**

> Actually one of my later BatB works, I think written 2010, also published on The Steam Tunnels

  
Enough   
by Sigyn  
  
  
    “Hold me tighter!” Catherine cried. “Tighter!”   
  
    “I felt you go!” Vincent whispered again. He  
couldn’t believe he had been able to bring her back to him. He squeezed  
her close, until he could feel every inch of her, letting his body find  
her out, proof that she was really there.  
  
    “I’m here.” Catherine buried her nose in his chest, as if trying to crawl inside him. “I’m still here.”  
  
    Vincent lifted her from her feet, cradling her, safe  
and secure in his arms. “That was too close,” he murmured. She nuzzled  
his throat, and his heart ached with the thought he might never have  
felt that again. “Too close.” He trembled with spent terror and relief.  
“What would I do without you?”  
  
    “Hold me,” was all Catherine said, and Vincent  
lifted her until he cradled her like a new bride, her arms wrapped  
around him like a cloak. “Don’t let go.”  
  
    Vincent found the wall of the balcony and sank  
against it, then pulled Catherine into his lap, letting her feel him  
out. She needed him, she needed him to be there, with her, to feel him  
strong and secure around her. He knew that. And oh, God, did he need to  
hold her! “I’m sorry,” he whispered. “I couldn’t stop him. I tried, I  
tried. He ran me right down.”  
  
    Catherine gasped and pulled away, feeling him all  
over. He gathered her back. “I’m....” He didn’t finish the statement.  
He wasn’t fine. He was bruised all over, exhausted from spent  
adrenaline, and his heart was still open and raw, but he had come  
nowhere near death. “You’re here. Nothing else matters.”  
  
    She sobbed a laugh. “I’d never have forgiven myself if something happened to you.”  
  
    “Of all moments, Catherine, please, only consider yourself.”  
  
    “I can’t. I just... oh, God, I died, Vincent. You were right, I was gone.”  
  
    He kissed the top of her head, unable to keep his lips from her. “Tell me."  
  
    “I saw Mother,” she whispered. “And Daddy. The fear  
was gone, and the cold. I already missed you, but I wanted to go to  
them. Then you came up and caught me. You brought me back. Back to the  
cold, back to you.”  
  
    Vincent shuddered, remembering those moments, all  
moving in slow motion in his mind, so that her death seemed to go on  
forever. And then the end of it, as he did what he had never dared to  
do before, placed his lips on hers in a life-giving breath, drawing her  
back to him until she coughed and spluttered. Through the cold and the  
wet, against all probability, the corpse was resurrected. Her heart  
beat, the breath of life moved through her, her spirit again touched  
her eyes. He pulled her close, as tightly as he dared, feeling the  
breath in her body, the heat of her flesh.  
  
    She buried herself in his long throat, and she found  
she was kissing it, without ever deciding she was going to. He tasted  
of salt and the oatmeal soap they made Below, and of that wild, tangy,  
seductive scent that had drawn her from the first moment she had woken,  
frightened and in pain, in his bed, two years ago. The moment she  
noticed she almost stopped, but he wasn’t pulling away. She slowed down  
instead, savoring it, caressing his flesh with her tongue. Her teeth  
closed gently, trapping the tiniest line of his skin before releasing  
him to do it again.  
  
    Vincent didn’t notice when she started kissing him,  
either. It felt so natural. He was just feeling her, making sure every  
part of him knew she was there, was safe, was still his to hold. When  
he finally noticed his eyes opened, and he kept himself very, very  
still. As Catherine’s teeth nibbled him, oh, so gently, his eyes closed  
again, but his lips parted. Oh, God, but this couldn’t be happening.  
Not tonight, not now. He couldn’t tell her "no" tonight. He simply did  
not have the power.  
  
    As he let her seek him out, she grew slightly  
bolder. Her mouth opened wider, tasted more of him. She expected him to  
say something, to stop her. And she would stop. She wouldn't press it.  
She didn’t ever want to push him further than he could go. But he was  
still holding her, his hands still warm on her shoulder, on her waist.  
He kept breathing evenly against her, and she knew she couldn’t bring  
herself to stop unless he asked her.  
  
    Vincent let the sensations envelop him. This wasn’t  
really happening. This was some elaborate part of what had happened  
tonight, the fear, the loss, the pain, the violence. He could still  
feel the death of the Watcher beneath his hands, taste the scent of his  
vicious blood. Catherine’s death, – her death! – had rent him right  
through. The Watcher was clearly insane, insane in the first place, and  
insane again to go to Vincent and gloat. At some level he had known he  
was speaking to his death. The slight taste Vincent had received of his  
emotions was poisonous. He focused on women with husbands, women who  
had strong men to protect them. Vincent had been wrong about that, he  
hadn’t really wanted Catherine. It wasn’t about the women. It was about  
strength. That was why he hadn’t tried to rape Catherine, hadn’t even  
considered it. It was never about her. If he could take the woman from  
the man, he had the man’s strength. Catherine wasn’t the first, but she  
was by far the most coveted prize. Because of Vincent.  
  
    But he had raped Vincent, poisoned his soul, torn  
the violence from his hands, turning Vincent again into the creature he  
didn’t want to be. He had taken Vincent’s strength, and it killed him,  
as he must have known it would. Vincent had been the instrument of  
other men’s suicides before. It never gave him comfort that they sought  
their deaths.  
  
    Now the events of the night flowed through his  
veins, leaving him entirely helpless against Catherine’s gentle  
onslaught. Her mouth slowly eased up the side of his neck, lifting his  
concealing hair, until she found his fur touched ear beneath it. She  
kissed the hinge of his jaw, just behind the ear, and he gasped. She  
pulled away a little. “Vincent,” she breathed into his ear, so quietly  
it wasn’t even a whisper.  
  
    His head turned toward her of its own accord, and he  
nuzzled her cheek. She was still warm and fresh from the shower, all  
trace of that tainted lake of death washed from her. Catherine made a  
small sound and shifted in his arms. She turned and held him, as if she  
was standing before him, but she wasn’t standing. In order to find this  
position her legs straddled him, wrapping around his hips until he  
could feel her everywhere. Her weight pressed down on his groin, and he  
was too stunned to protest.  
  
    Catherine began tracing his face, her thumbs  
caressing his cheeks, her fingertips brushing against his brows. She  
ran the backs of her fingers down the side of his face, coursing  
beneath his jaw, her thumb lingering on his broad chin. Then she did  
what she’d always longed to do, and never before dared. One finger  
gently touched his upper lip, touching the strange, animal like muzzle,  
the firmness of his lips. She could feel his breath on her fingers, and  
she touched the side of his nose. Then, gentle as spring rain, she  
caressed him with both hands, her thumbs tracing his eyelids. Both  
thumbs came away slightly wet, and she realized he was holding tears.  
“Oh,” she whispered, and embraced him, her nose running up and down his  
temple. Her breath warmed his cheek, and his head moved again of its  
own accord, finding her jaw, and then her throat.  
  
    He did not kiss her, but his head moved from side to  
side as if to music, caressing her flesh with his velvety muzzle. There  
wasn’t even a part of his mind to spare for shame, or common sense, or  
the words Father would say. When Catherine died tonight it left a vast  
hole in his senses, and all of those restraints sank into it as if to a  
whirlpool.  
  
    Catherine couldn’t believe it. She couldn’t believe  
he was simply succumbing, letting her do what she wished. His eyes were  
half closed, and he seemed in a dream state. It wouldn’t be fair to do  
all she wanted; he would regret it, and it would set their love back  
again. All of his dual mind had to come to terms with the physical side  
of their love. She wasn’t sure how aware he was now, or how in control.  
  
    Vincent didn’t know, either. Her death had left him  
raw and helpless. Even as the police cars came and the men tramped  
through the park with their flashlights and their shouts, Vincent had  
stayed to hold her. She’d had to send him away, remind him that he had  
to go. He’d pressed his face to her cheek for a moment, two moments,  
three, until long after he should have pulled away. It was only at the  
last second that he had managed to break contact, disappear into the  
darkness. Even then he had to stay, despite their flashlights and their  
dogs. It wasn’t enough that she had been found, he had to watch from  
the shadows to be sure she was collected tenderly, was safely led to an  
ambulance. What if there was something wrong with her? Suppose the  
Watcher had injured her, inside? He had to know she was being tended to  
before he could bear to let her out of his sight.  
  
    And now he was here, and she was here, and they were  
both safe on her balcony, and her arms and legs were around him and his  
heart beat so loudly he thought it might burst from his chest.  
     
  
    Catherine moved and began kissing him along his  
hairline, across his brow, then down his downy cheek, until she came to  
the corner of his mouth. She kissed him very gently there, and Vincent  
opened his eyes. He pulled his head away, just slightly, and Catherine  
knew if she crossed that invisible barrier, if she let herself indulge  
in those lips, his dream state would be shattered. She pulled away and  
lightly kissed his nose instead. Then she nuzzled it in an Eskimo kiss,  
first one side, then the other, drinking in his breath, bathing in his  
scent.  
  
    He stared at her for a long moment when she was  
through, his blue eyes a liquid and fathomless sea. His arms snaked  
around her back, and his hands ran down her sides, into and out of her  
waist, over her hips, until they finally settled on her bottom.  
  
    That was almost too much for Catherine. She fought  
to hold herself very, very still at this intimate and extremely erotic  
touch. Her clitoris twitched in expectation, and she could feel that  
her pajamas were going to get very wet. She became acutely aware that  
her legs were splayed over his groin, and she couldn’t be more than a  
few precious centimeters from his most secret male treasures.  
  
    His head bowed, and Catherine found herself  
presented with the top of his lustrous mane. And then his lips found  
her throat, and her head fell back with a sigh that was almost a moan.  
He lipped her, gently, randomly, and then his tongue found her flesh,  
and he licked her, again and again, his mouth pressing against her in  
something that was almost, not quite, a true kiss.  
  
    Catherine grunted and shuddered, unable to contain  
herself. This was so erotic, so much of what she’d been longing for for  
so, so long. Vincent pulled away then, his eyes hooded, and he lay his  
head against the wall of the balcony. His hands, still cradling her  
buttocks, started to knead her like a cat. Catherine’s groin clenched,  
demanding she take what was almost being offered her.  
  
    She couldn’t, though. Her heart ached for him,  
literally a pain in her chest, and she wanted him, and feared him. Any  
moment he might come to his senses and throw this precious experience  
away. Her hands found his broad chest. She could barely feel him  
beneath the layers of padded sweater he wore, but his contours were  
there, beneath them, broad and muscular, strong enough to pull her back  
from the jaws of death itself.  
  
    Her hands traveled up to find his shoulders, and she  
kneaded them, kneaded the tension from them, even as he kneaded her. He  
made a small sound and tensed beneath her, and she just had to hug him.  
She leaned forward to put her body against his, and something touched  
her. Just the barest hint of a touch from beneath his clothes, a twitch  
from a bulge she’d been unable see was there. It was too much. She knew  
she should stop this, should talk to him, make sure this was what he  
wanted, but she couldn’t. It simply wasn’t within her power.  
  
    She was in a bit of a dream state herself. Her  
terror and her death and her mild case of hypothermia had made  
everything surreal and intense. She supposed it was possible there was  
still a bit of the ether, or whatever it was the Watcher had used to  
put her to sleep, in her system. She thought she could feel Vincent's  
mind inside her, as he felt her emotions, and he was filled with a  
drifting, illusive sense of wonder, as if nothing mattered in the world  
but this moment. She wrapped her arms around his shoulders and held  
him, let her body find his, let that twitching bulge caress the flaming  
bud of flesh that cried out for him. She held him very tightly, and his  
hands on her buttocks clenched, almost piercing her flesh, but not  
quite. Not quite. She couldn’t stop herself from pushing against him,  
just a little bit, just the tiniest amount, and the bulge jumped  
against her, and she sighed as her inflamed bud shuddered in release,  
sending wave after wave of peaceful pleasure through her quivering  
body. It wasn’t all she thought she wanted – half of her still ached to  
feel him inside her. But it was enough.  
  
    Vincent grunted softly, and she could feel him  
moving beneath her, not even moving his hips, just a slowly circulating  
quiver of motion, a pulse of paradise.  
  
    They simply stayed in that position for a long time  
after their release. Finally, Catherine’s back cramped, and she had to  
move. She feared doing it. She feared seeing Vincent’s face, feared  
what he was thinking. That dream she’d had of feeling what he was  
feeling was past now, and reality was quickly taking hold again.  
  
    She sat up very slowly, releasing her embrace,  
letting her hands rest on his upper arms. Vincent watched her movement,  
and his hands traveled up to her hips. For a long, long time they  
regarded each other. Neither one of them moved.  
  
    Catherine knew she should speak. She knew they  
should talk about this, that she should explain her inability to behave  
rationally. But all of those thoughts would be panic and confusion, and  
all she felt in this moment was peace. She couldn’t hold them. The  
silence seemed right.  
  
    Finally, Vincent closed his eyes with a sigh, and  
his shoulders sagged. He felt as if he’d been through hell tonight. No,  
came Shakespeare’s words, unbidden into his mind. But to the gate; and  
there will the devil meet me,  like an old cuckold with horns on  
his head, and say, ‘Get you to heaven... get you to heaven.’  
Shakespeare knew everything.  
  
    Catherine shifted in his lap until she was curled  
like a child, her legs curled to the side, her arms folded on his  
chest. Her head leaned against him and she listened to his heart. She  
couldn’t bear to speak and ruin this precious moment. This was all she  
wanted in the world, this, right here, curled up in Vincent’s lap with  
his arms around her, holding her tightly, safely. This was everything.  
  
    Vincent let his head drop until his nose was buried  
in her hair. She really was here. This night, death had been too close  
to them. He had to keep holding her... he couldn’t let her go....  
  
    Morning light was what woke him. Still early, but too late for him. “Catherine,” he murmured.  
  
    Catherine awoke with a deep breath and looked up  
into his face. “You have to go,” she said, realizing it instantly.  
  
    “Yes.”  He considered asking her about what had  
happened last night. She looked so small and pure and peaceful in his  
arms, he wasn’t sure it hadn’t all been a dream. No. It had to have  
been a dream. He had fallen asleep with her in his arms, and he had  
dreamed it. It had to have been a dream, because he had not felt a  
single thread of violence in his soul, not had a moment of desire that  
she hadn’t automatically fulfilled. That couldn’t have been real. He’d  
known every moment what was happening, and hadn’t felt a single impulse  
to see her off. That wasn’t like him. No. It had to have been a  
dream.  He hoped she wasn’t offended that she played such an  
intimate part of his dreams. It was enough that he had held her through  
the night. No need to frighten her with what had happened in his mind  
and body as she slept. “Until tonight, Catherine,” was all he said.  
  
    She kissed him on the corner of his mouth, just as  
he had dreamed she had last night, gently, sincerely. “I love you,” she  
said.  
  
    “Until tonight,” he repeated. He kissed the top of  
her head before he disentangled himself from her and climbed from her  
balcony.  
  
    That night, as Catherine lit the candles to reclaim  
her balcony as theirs, she wondered if she should talk to Vincent about  
what had happened. Finally, she decided not to. It was probably unfair  
of her, akin to some form of date rape, but she really hadn’t been able  
to help it. Sometimes Vincent lost control. He might understand that  
she had... but then he’d feel guilty that he’d taken advantage of her  
when she was in that state.  
  
    No. It didn’t matter. It was all part of that  
surreal night, a night of fear, terror, grief, rage, relief,  
desperation, release and peace. A night that was over, whatever  
happened.  
  
    Perhaps Vincent didn’t remember. Perhaps he wanted  
to pretend it hadn’t happened. But when he came to her that night he  
let his fingers brush her lips in a way he never had before. He let  
himself hold her in ways more close and more intimate than he had ever  
allowed. He stared at her with his endless blue eyes until she nearly  
drowned.  
  
    Whatever last night meant to him, it was enough.  
     
  
  
  
  



End file.
